Hare-larious clippings

This gory pic is the result of one of the more unorthodox dates I've had in recent months, involving the butchering, cooking and eating of hare. I now feel entirely justified in this questionable choice of food, having read two articles in the Bangkok Times on the same day last week:

'A possibly rabid hare attacked a 74 year old woman and her 78 year old husband today. The crazed animal launched itself at the woman while she was hanging her laundry in the garden. The victim fled to the house while her husband tried to scare off the attacking hare. Police officers saw the man "battling the hare" when they arrived at the scene. The animal was shot dead when it tried to attack one of the policemen.'

'A major highway was closed yesterday after a truck carrying rabbits crashed, letting 5000 of the animals loose on the road. A police spokeswoman said "there were thousands of them on the road but they're not using their newfound freedom well: they're just sitting around, eating grass and enjoying the sun".' Sounds alright to me.

Reminds me of the killer bunny sketch in Monty Python that made me laugh for years on end...

Come back Mrs Pritchard, all is forgiven

Today I spent the best part of my afternoon delivering Labour Party leaflets and 2007 calendars (yes, I know it's April but apparently that's local politics for you). I have to confess that I had a minor existential crisis as I wondered whether those people with the 'no junk mail' signs on their doors would consider my little offering junk or not. The truth is, I had a sneaking suspicion it was.

I'm really confused about this... after all, I ridiculed the Tories at their last party conference (all cigars and champagne and no policy), I laugh (quietly, I don't want to lose my job after all) at the old Whig-type Conservatives that run the council I work for part-time. And yet my recent foray into local Labour politics made me realise that the left isn't much better these days. It's equally full of socially awkward people, it's equally focused on who's hot and who's not rather than what actually matters, and it's equally tedious to *anyone* whose identity isn't defined by 'being in politics'.

In this, I concur fully with The Amazing Mrs Pritchard (was I the only one who loved that programme?) and her Purple Alliance - an average woman who declared 'I could do a lot better than that lot' - and proceeded to knock the politicking, posturing and pretence out of politics. Shame it was a BBC drama rather than real life. I'm just so frustrated by how disconnected political parties now seem to our everyday experiences - whatever clever David Miliband has to say about the need for more people power - and my leaflet session today made me wonder whether party politics has had its day. But if that's my conclusion then I'm really scared: without politics, what are we left with? Who and how would we make really difficult decisions about the things that affect us all?

This plays out at a personal level as well: do I bother to stay involved, tolerating loser local political hacks, wasting precious Thursday evenings sitting around in community halls? Why is it that everyone finds it funny that I'm even vaguely involved? Why aren't any of the people I really admire and respect playing a more active role as politicians and councillors themselves? Should I take a stand and invest precious time and energy in convincing my friends that we have a responsibility to get involved? Or should I spend more time moaning about the death of politics and trying to bring about change in different, frankly more enjoyable ways?

Hidden costs of being a woman no. 2

As part of the occasional series of whinges about the costs of being a woman, I'd like to talk about hair. I consider myself to be pretty low maintenance and yet to my horror/surprise, I've worked out that on average I spend about £40 a month removing, cutting, and dying my hair (and I don't even cover up my increasingly grey streak!). This seems like crazy money but I'd wager that most women are in the same position as me. Or at least, most dark-haired women are...

From posh haircuts to avoid the misery of a crappy hairstyle, to shaving armpits, to bleaching arms, to epilating and waxing legs and bikinis, it feels like a never ending cycle of maintenance that is a basic part of being a woman these days. No one ever discusses it, or comments, unless you don't do it (see the views on Darwin Dating noted in a previous post)

Waxing is arguably the least pleasant way of blowing cash ever. Worst of all, I've discovered that I get peculiarly ticklish as the poor waxer tries to do her job. Don't know if it is stress, or embarrassment, or what, but I seriously hope that I'm not the only one who giggles uncontrollably as I get my stupid, persistently re-growing hairs ripped out.

Worst experience ever happened last week, in thailand, as I simultaneously opted for a bikini wax and an eyelash tint. Hot tip: don't try this one at home kids.

Back in the zone

OK, so I had vaguely planned (see previous entry) to blog stuff as I travelled around Thailand but it turned out that our quest to find remote places (Ko Lanta and Ko Tao rocked) was successful - which meant no email connections able to cope with the concept of loading up content. So, in no particular order, cool stuff about my holiday:

• Lying on the sand, looking up to the sky and realising we were in the southern hemisphere from the stars being the wrong way up (geography was never my strong point)
• Getting a tattoo from a seriously hot thai guy called Tong
  
• Chatuchak market
• Having one of the best meals of my life in a car park
• Learning to ride a motorbike on dirt tracks (not entirely successful, it's true, but we can edit the minor accident out)
• Sleeping with the aid of valium
• Living without a mirror for the best part of two weeks
• Cheap facials, manicures, massages from super cool women

Best of all was going on holiday with a girlfriend, especially the moment we woke up after a particularly hot, sweaty and mosquito filled night looking like total crap and realising that it really, really didn't matter. Have come back feeling healthy, sorted and ready to take on the world. Watch this space...

Wholesale TopShop

Oh my god. I am in Thailand and yesterday we spent the most incredible 7 hours (yes, 7 hours) in Chatuchak market. Here must be the place that all the buyers for TopShop, River Island, Miss Selfridge and just about every other shop I love come for their stuff. I saw everything I was wearing for sale at various stalls. The only difference? The leggings I was wearing (TopShop, 15 quid) were being sold at just over a pound. AND - praise the lord, shirts fit me here! That's a whole new fashion vista that has just opened up for me...

Clearly we're not just here to shop but yesterday was a fascinating day - at the other end of the scale (we visited just to compare and contrast, you understand) the posh shopping mall in Bangkok's Mayfair equivalent was selling dresses (not as nice as the party dresses we both bought in the market) for 300 quid. There must be some kind of dual economy going on.

And then in the evening we took ourselves to a cool place (according to Time Out anyway) called Bed Supper Club, a VJ bar that appeared to cater for lots of sex tourists. )incidentallz, who are these guys, i feel another blog coming on when I have more credit in the internet cafe...). The point is, I love it here. It is brilliant. Cant wait fo the next two weeks!

Rich men and fit women

My mum sent me a doom-filled article the other day about how educated women will find it harder and harder to find a man as they overtake men in education and earning stakes. As the article says, we will have to 'downgrade our expectations of Mr Right, or face a life alone'. A part of me really agreed with the argument - you only have to look at sites like My Single Friend (can anyone explain to me why Sarah Beeny runs it??), to see that the women are about ten times more interesting than the best guy on the site. Maybe we're just getting too picky these days.

But part of me also wondered where this argument takes us. The article assumes that all women want is a man that earns more than them. Which isn't far off something my trader friend told me about last night - natural selection speed dating - where 'deep cleavage meets deep pockets'. Here, the argument is simple: women want rich men, and men want women with big boobs. So boys, don't even apply if you're not earning over $1m. And women, just your photos thanks, no need to know about your hobbies dear. Apparently it's all the rage in the city, and everyone is waiting for the concept to migrate from NYC to here. Wow. All that feminism was really worth it, right?

If you like that, you'll love this: Darwin Dating - again, a nice and simple concept (we wouldn't want to confuse all those men now would we) - if you're ugly, fuck off. They don't want to see you if you have 'weird pubic hair', a mullet, disproportionately large ears, fat rolls. On the plus side, fishnets 'are ok so long as you're hot'. Something tells me this was set up by a guy, non? I'm almost tempted to join to see what no hopers are out there. Except, damn, I appear to have 'hair in the wrong places'. Ah well, another day, another dating agency...

Note to self

Today I came across an artist whose chosen muse is women's lists. Clearly they are the latest artform - I'm inclined to agree as I love lists, really I do. My first memory of them was less positive - a dear friend boasting of her list of over 100 'boyfriends', including BA from the A-team. We were 8 at the time and I recall we disagreed profoundly over her definition of boyfriend... some things never change... However I just can't get enough of them these days (lists, not boys). I have lists for everything. Music to buy (currently pending: Kubicheck!, Maximo Park, the latest Air album - always useful - a slightly random selection I know but I've been doing quite well at keeping up recently). Things to see - films, theatre, exhibitions. I've really failed this month - still to do (and I'm going on holiday in two days) include the Gilbert and George exhibition, Climates, the fashion exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery, After the Wedding, Hogarth - argh I am so annoyed that I haven't managed any of these.

More mundanely I have lists for stuff I need to get for my house like a decent lampshade, curtains that are actually the right length, more coathangers. Boring things I need to do like filing (why does that one never get crossed off??), cleaning my windows, paying in cheques, going through my post - the pile has almost reached the unacceptable 3 month stage. Somehow I think that if it's really urgent, they'll call...

What I like best about my latest system is that instead of all these lists being on poxy scraps of paper I just use one moleskine notebook (conforming to my demographic, moi?) and now it's like a little patchwork of my life for the last 18 months - all there in one glorious jumble of things to do - things that I've done with a satisfied tick through them, although there are also a rather distressing number of things that have yet to be crossed off. Lists of music I ripped out of a magazine whilst in Copenhagen are right next to emails I need to send; a list of pros for a particular boy is next to a shopping list for new years eve. Who needs all this prose when a list will do? Forget blogging, it's all about the lists.

When two exes make a why

I have a knack of making friends with my exes with the exception of one guy (don't think I'm giving too much away if I admit he's the excel spreadsheet one from an earlier post). Generally speaking I think this is A Good Thing: it would feel weird to not stay connected in some way with someone who you've shared a lot with.

But the other day this strategy was somewhat undermined when I discovered that two not-so-ancient exes had found themselves in a meeting together. God, how I would have loved to be a fly on the wall in that particular meeting room! But equally, how I cringe to imagine what was going on in their heads as they pondered the various titbits of inappropriate knowledge they had of each other...

A lesson perhaps in learning to keep my mouth shut. Either that, or an indication that I need to widen my search criteria and stop going out with men who end up in the same world as one another.

Either way, I smell trouble again at aforementioned Glastonbury. So far I know of three former/semi-current beloveds who plan to be there too. Well if nothing else it will add a certain frisson to the proceedings...

3 hours later and...

I've got a ticket for Glastonbury! Although my ear is still ringing from hearing the engaged tone solidly from 9 to 11.30 this morning, it was thanks to others efforts that I am now (and I cringe to confess this) going to a festival for the first time in my life.

(well, unless Port Eliot litfest counts, which I'm not sure it does - fantastic and wonderful as it was, it involved better showers than I have in my flat, and at least half the people there had kids of the cute middle-class kind.)

I've just never quite got round to it before, not really sure why. I do remember having a row with my mum when I was 15 and miserable about not being allowed to go to Reading 'in case I got crushed' (??). And I guess I spent quite a lot of my twenties (a) with people who thought camping/music stuff was notso hotso and (b) making paltry excuses based on having too much work. Whatever! This year is different. Give me mud and booze and music, I'm ready (just don't ask me to share my tent)...

Gutless fuckers

I'm not a big fan of guts as a look, but today I've been pondering on why it is exactly that me and my beautiful amazing girlfriends put up with so much crap from loser men. What happens in our head? Why, when they are behaving badly, do we try to understand, to explain it away, to even get excited about the idea of possibly 'saving' this poor thing who's claiming to be afraid, or confused, or whatever other paltry excuse they've come up with for their crappy behaviour?

Whatever, I'm really sick of gutless men. I'm sick of men too scared (oooo!) to ask 'why not?' instead of 'why'. I'm sick of dumbing down so that they don't get put off by half a brain. I'm sick of doing all the work to put people at ease. I'm sick of people who don't think they have a responsibility for their behaviour, it's just not ok (especially at notquitethirty) to blame all your problems and fuck ups on your parents. Get over it boy! - it's your life now, so what are you gonna do with it?

I like complicated people who don't just want the easy life but really, do they all have to be mentalists too? Someone suggested to me today that the solution to my quandary is to look out for older men who've been able to afford therapy to sort themselves out. It's a creative solution, but I like it. So if you see me hanging around outside the Institute for Psychoanalysis, you'll know why...

Hidden costs of being a woman no. 1

I spent £30 in M&S today. What on? Not packets of pomegranate seeds. Not ready-washed rocket. Not several packets of their extortionate steaks. No. Tights. Yes, tights, I said.

No one ever told me how expensive it is to do the bare minimum necessary to keep up the appearance of being a woman. I mean I could go for the obvious moan about tampons but i don't want to encourage all those men out there to think they've got a clever answer ('what about razor blades huh?' - well honey if you think women don't need razor blades too, think again). Frankly it annoys me to have to spend so much on tights. Especially as I appear to have a peculiar ability to make a hole in mine within a day of wearing them (what IS wrong with the heel of my right foot??)

Actually more generally, while I'm on this theme, I hate feet, especially mine, but also in general. The best play I ever saw was a Knee High production of The Red Shoes. It's all about a girl who buys some shoes with her grandmother's hard-earned money, and when she puts them on she finds she can't stop dancing - and that she can't take them off. Eventually (look away now if you don't want to know the gruesome end) she persuades a carpenter to chop her feet, and shoes, off. I almost envied her. A life without feet sounds like a good one to me. Except that if you chop your feet off - and this really troubles me - would the stumps of your legs start to resemble horrible feet? Perhaps there is no escape. Perhaps I should think less hard about this.

Why do I wake up to this crap?

I hate the Today programme. Really I do. So why oh why oh why have I listened to it every day (including most Saturdays) for the last 8 years??? This really is something of a mystery to me. There are only two (semi) rational explanations: (1) it makes me so cross that it wakes me up enough to drag me out of bed and (2) there are NO OTHER OPTIONS. As I felt the urge to type in capitals I realise the second explanation is more likely.

The most recent source of anger for the programme's shitness is a report on yesterday's programme on the high pregnancy and abortion rate amongst Polish immigrants. I couldn't believe the utter failure to recognise the parallels between this story ('Polish women sleep with our men! Then they use our health services! shock! horror! the wrong people are breeding!') and the fears about working class fertility that kicked Marie Stopes into advocating birth control - oh yes and eugenics - nearly a century ago. It was like Today was tapping into this powerful fear of women's reproductive power, a fear of uneven birth rates and immigration. I guess it's a pretty potent combination but really, is there NO ONE with any interest in what might lie behind these figures who works for the programme?

Leaving aside the fact that apparently most of its listeners are reactionary bigots themselves (for god's sake, the 'Radio 4 law' was to legalise gun ownership for the protection of our properties!), for me this Polish Women Get Pregnant story simply reinforced, yet AGAIN, the utter prejudice and crassness of the programme and the narrow-mindedness of the presenters. Unable to see nuance, unable to recognise complexity or indeed demonstrate any grasp of real life as the rest of us experience it. The utter opposite of good current affairs journalism in my view, which ought to be about making complicated issues understandable, rather than simplistic. Don't patronise me John Humphrys, you wanker. Learn a lesson from that amazing Newsnight when Martha Kearny followed Jack Straw for a week. Now that's proof that journalism can make people want to vote, rather than turning them off from it (and while I'm on this, what the hell was the BBC doing when they appointed spekky thinktank boy Nick Robinson over marvellous Martha as their political editor?)

Anyway. Back to the rant about the Today programme. Don't even get me started on the fucking schmaltzy-as-hell pieces about birds and wildlife. They make me want to puke, almost as much as the 'take me back to 1950' thought for the day from religious nut-nuts. Give me a break. Why hasn't anyone realised there isn't just a gap in the market for a decent current affairs morning programme, there's a bloody gaping void?

Music is my boyfriend

This picture here is my new oyster card holder. Loving it. I went to see Dragonette for the second time last week and am convinced they are the best band out there at the moment. Hot singer, with her hot husband on the bass. Very sexy music, and she looked incredible in a jacket, a quiff and fishnets. A look I might try in my day job...

Other bands that are in my good books at the moment: The Sounds, Gossip (what's not to like??), Imogen Heap (some of it's a bit Dido but Hide and Seek is gorgeous), Kate Nash, Metronomy, CSS (going to see them next month), Regina Spektor, Deluka. These have been my soundtracks over the last couple of months.

I find that certain tunes are hardwired to particular moments in time: music is definitely more evocative than smells or photos for me. I'll never forget one memorable conversation at university about the music people had lost their virginity to (can you remember?) The winner was Mr R, with a live recording of John Coltrane playing Naima. We were all impressed by that. Smooth move sir. More innocently, I'll remember Hey as the song I first recall flirting to - this makes me sound cooler than I was; Santana's version of Black Magic Woman being the soundtrack to my first kiss, Ms Dyn-a-mit-he-he-he as the song where I fell in love most recently - not exactly an obvious choice, I know; Crazy as the song that came on (it was almost spooky) both times I was breaking up with people last year - thanks Gnarls for that.

And then there's the hilarious Joe Satriani guitar wank that G and I thought was so cool when we were 14 and on our first parent-free holiday - interspered with the more socially acceptable album Blue by Joni Mitchell. There's Remember Me and He's on the Phone that characterised the gin-fuelled second term of my first year at university. I got really bored dancing to Lust for Life at various rubbish clubs in London and Oxford. Erykah Badu reminds me of being confused and revising a lot. Loop Guru and Portishead are like distant memories through a slightly dope-induced haze. The Cardigans before they got rockier, Orbital and the Beastie Boys were what I drove to as a 17 year old discovering the joys of not relying on parents for lifts.

Could go on but it might get embarrassing... whatever, thank you Apple for giving me joy through my ipod, thank you myspace for reopening a whole world of music for me, and thank you job that requires two hours of sitting on a train each day and passing the time by listening to such talent. I bet every other passenger is glad I've just bought some of those sound-absorbing headphones.

I heart AQA

Example of an exchange I had with AQA following a recent date:

Me: did I have a good time with Stavros* last night?
AQA: If the evening was unmemorable, then AQA thinks that you can't have had a good time with Stavros. However, AQA thinks you should give him another chance.

Sound advice that I'm inclined to follow.

* Some identities have been changed

Women at work

I have had a longstanding interest in the gender dynamics of offices and organisations. One of the things that intrigues me most is the politics of women-women relationships, and today I was reminded that often these are the most complex, gendered relationships of them all.

I have worked with some incredible women and some pretty so-so ones. I have a woman to thank for getting me out of my first dead-end job. I also have a woman to thank for an early resignation and a year of utter misery. I have no doubt whatsoever that gender had a part to play in both these experiences. And today, I faced a woman who could either be my ally or my enemy. It was a bit like watching the prisoner's dilemma unfold as we both tried to work out whether we were going to play the 'yes, we're both quite young women operating at a relatively senior level in a pretty male organisation so let's work together' card, or whether we were going to go for all-out cat-fight there's-only-space-for-one-of-us war.

I find these kinds of experiences profoundly depressing. Why can't women look out for one another in a straightforward way? We still face an uphill struggle in cultural and indeed in simple pay terms at work so why waste all that energy on competing with one another?

It reminds me of an inspiring conversation I had a few weeks back with a woman who had been very active in the radical feminist movement in the 1970s. We were talking about feminism today and my wish that I'd been part of the early movement where the sense of women working together was so strong (although she put me right on this particular misconception) - anyway we agreed that the only way to truly define feminism today is by finding those women who actively seek out, support and encourage other women in weaker positions than them.

This really resonates with me. I think of my experiences and the extent to which my own successes in my career are owed to senior women looking out for me. And I think of mothers encouraging their daughters to believe that the world is theirs for the taking (an experience me and most of my friends were lucky enough to have). Feminism isn't about being at the top of your career, or being a ball crusher, or actively choosing to be an ever-present mother. No, it's about looking out for other women and supporting them. The woman that climbs the ladder and draws it up behind her is a woman I'd least like to deal with in work.

Food shopping and being a grownup

Tonight I made some delicious broccoli soup from veg grown in Kent and picked this morning*. As I was making it I reflected on the fact that I haven't cooked a proper meal in ages, and in fact I haven't done a 'weekly shop' since living alone again.

Much like gardening, the idea of a store cupboard and a weekly shop fall into the category of 'officially grown up' and I am beginning to think that it's never going to happen. Getting to Tesco and stocking up on a Saturday morning would be an entirely pointless exercise with the way my life works at the moment. I don't know whether I'm in, out, working late etc etc so it's hard to plan much at all. Sometimes I imagine myself as the kind of lone occupant who treats herself by rustling up a delicious supper for herself with some posh wine to accompany. But whilst I haven't yet descended to the depressing depths of microwave meals for one out of the freezer every night (in my head akin to Bridget Jones' fear of being eaten by Alsations), it's true that I conjure up some fairly eclectic combinations of food to get me through the week (noodles and cheddar anyone? or a tin of tomatoes with kidney beans heated up? mmm delicious).

WHY don't supermarkets do packs of one of nice, unprepared things like meat and fish??? it drives me crazy. I am one of those guilty people on the news yesterday who ends up throwing away way too much food. I feel bad, but why don't shops realise that lone diners don't always want a bloody ready meal?

The best thing about going to the supermarket is watching the people there and checking out the contents of (single male) baskets. Are they single? a parent? food freak? etc. I am certain I see other people doing it to me... but maybe I just imagine this in a desperate attempt to make myself feel better about my nosy and judgemental habits. One friend of mine took this to an extreme when she continued to log in to an ocado account she'd shared with an ex - not, of course, to spend his money on her food shop - but rather, to check out what he was buying and work out whether there was someone else on the scene (there wasn't)

* Anyway. that recipe for broccoli soup. Dead simple. Boil up some chicken stock, whack in a head of broc, cook till soft. whizz it up, mix in some yoghurt or creme fraiche and pepper, and top with a bit of cooked chopped chorizo or salami. be warned: it's actually quite addictive. if you like broccoli. watch out nigella...

I want to be alone

Sometimes, nothing is as good as enjoying London on your own. Just been speaking to a friend who went up to columbia road market this morning to buy some flowers, then wandered around the vintage shops on brick lane before pottering back to her flat. sounds great to me. And it reminds me of all the things that frankly I wouldn't want anyone else doing with me because they're my time, all mine.

Things like the trocadero cinema early viewings on saturdays - there's always the major challenge of sneaking your pret coffee past the attendants who have been told to only allow the disgusting, overpriced cinema coffee past - but once in, the joy of a cinema almost all to yourself - for a fiver! Even better are the days when I come out of one film and go straight back into another. I've never really understood why people go to the cinema together when it's so fun to go alone.

A selection of other things that are best done alone...

(1) waterstones on piccadilly at around 4pm on a weekday - browsing systematically but especially the ground floor, first and fourth, before landing in the bar at the top for a cold glass of white wine to be savoured slowly.

(2) early morning runs along the thames, especially when the air is so cold it knocks the breath out of you when you start, and when there's a slight mist over the houses of parliament and a sense of London coming to life and gearing up for another busy day.

(3) galleries - I always worry that my approach to art makes me something of a charlatan compared to my cultured friends - I like to go round the entire exhibition quickly and then come back to anything I like - or exit stage left, pronto, if I don't - either way, this approach is easier done alone. no need for meaningful chat in front of a painting that does nothing for you.

(4) coffee anywhere along carnaby st - I've got happy memories of sipping coffee at Leon with a former boy but still enjoy watching the world go by tout seule - Carnaby St such a weird mix of fashion tourists, teenagers and other assorted randoms that it's a great place to be.

(5) topshop. the requirement for beady eyes and sharp elbows make this shopping experience one best kept to yourself - who wants to talk when there's so much else to do??

(6) busaba eatai chicken noodle soup whilst sitting at one of their window seats. genius. messy.

(7) north london line train from Richmond to Highbury and Islington - taking in Kew, Brondesbury and lots of the other back gardens of London. very appealing to nosy people who have their best ideas whilst glimpsing fragments of other people's lives. a worthy use of time in its own right for those days when I just like feeling part of London

(8) green park and a book in spring. loadsa daffs. loadsa football games. good for the 'hello trees, hello flowers' moments.

(9) waking up, getting tea and my copy of Time Out before climbing back into bed again. pure bliss (esp on a day where I should be working).

It's not you, it's me...

I read the NY Times piece just before Christmas about the questions couples should ask themselves before getting married. Interesting stuff. But I beg to differ with NYT on the things that really matter: over the years my girlfriends and I have amassed some truly classic stories about boys and the real reasons we extract ourselves from relationships. Here are some of the best:

• he wore blue Y-fronts

• he used an excel spreadsheet to work out which friends he needed to call when (am pretty sure there will be more on this particular sin in another blog)

• he was 'too nice' and therefore highly suspect

• he ordered chicken on his pizza

• he laughed hysterically whilst coming

• he felt like a brother, and she's not into incest

• he asked what her top five films were

• he said he didn't like curry

• his dad was bald

• he once said he might vote conservative (even though she wasn't very political)

• he had a funny neck

• he was called barry white

• he was rude to a waitress (dump the bastard, i say)

• he shopped at H&M

• he didn't shop at H&M

Lucky we don't all come clean when we're saying goodbye, huh?

The fine art of dating

Thanks to a particularly geeky teenage existence, I didn't get round to much dating when I was not-quite-twenty. And anyway, whatever dating meant as a nervous teenager, I'm pretty sure it isn't the same as dating at not-quite-thirty. How important is it to go through that agony of whether to put a kiss at the end of your text message? There's something quite delicious about waiting in hope for an email, something quite fun about debating how soon is too soon to reply, and that gutwrenching moment of saying goodbye and wondering whether he'll give you a kiss is pretty hard to replicate once you've found yourself in a relationship. Should we be seeing dating as a kind of 'vetting' process, a chance to find out about someone and decide whether you *really* like them. Maybe this dating period is even more important at our age, because most of us have been with people before and have (usually) enjoyed the easy intimacy of sharing a life with someone. It's maybe too tempting to slip back into old habits without thinking hard about whether its those habits or the new relationship that you really like. That plus the fact that more and more people seem to be coupled-up these days puts any new potential under lots of pressure.

But ok, if we accept that there might be some merits in dating, can someone please tell me what on earth it looks like in practice? Does it entail exclusivity? Does it include phone conversations? How often do dates happen? Should you meet each others friends? Platonic or not? Real me or CV-me? one guy I know said he thought you shouldn't be overly honest at the dating stage 'as no one else is, so if you are, you'll seem more crazy than everyone else out there'.

My girlfriends seem divided on this issue about the merits of dating. Some of them say that we're old enough to know what we want, and that this is nothing more than time-wasting game-playing to meet the needs of commitment-phobic gutless men. But then others are very positive about it and think that dating is a means of working out what you want. One thing they all believe: if someone just wants to date you, then you are still a free agent. Now where was the phone no for that cute guy?...